Somewhere Along the Line
by Light Under My Skin
Summary: Everyone in the castle knows that he asks her out, every chance he gets. Everyone in the castle knows that she declines, every time he asks. This is a story about the impossibilities of love, and how even in the midst of a war, love conquers all.


Somewhere Along the Line

Summary: Everyone in the castle knows that he asks her out, every chance he gets. Everyone in the castle knows that she declines, every time he asks. It's been going on for years. Somewhere along the line, she fell in love with him but she pretends she doesn't care because she doesn't think he does. Somewhere along the line, he fell in love with her, but he covers it up with his ego in order to never be hurt. This is a story about the impossibilities of love, and how even in the midst of a war, love conquers all.

A/N: This is my first story in Second Person, so I'm aware it might not be that good. Reviews and feedback on how I could get better are appreciated!

"Hey Lils!" a voice calls, and butterflies rage in your stomach even as anger settles on your face, "Evans!" he yells again, closer now. You know you have to turn around soon, but first you take the split second you have to close your eyes, to steel yourself before pirouetting like the most graceful of ballerinas to face him.

James Potter. The guy that, every chance he gets, torments you. It used to be torment of a different kind, bullying and spells, but somewhere along the line, it changed to asking you out in front of crows, forcing you to say no, and look heartless, or say yes, and look pathetic. He's done this – bothered you in some way – for as long as you can remember. He didn't even let up on you in third year, when your parents died, or in fifth year, when your best friend crushed your world with a single word. He was relentless, cruel, and yet there you are.

There you are, turning around to face him, unable to avoid his charm. There you are, butterflies in your stomach, heart pounding as you use what's let of your self-control, refusing to let yourself smile. There you are, trying your very best to summon even the barest hint of dislike towards him. There you are, helplessly in love with him.

"Potter," you say, your voice dripping with contempt that you don't really feel. You force the smile away, put on your big-girl glare and face him square on, "Can I help you?"

He smiles, and you all but swoon, reason going out the window. With his messy black hair that makes you just want to run your hands through it and never let go, he stands before you, blue eyes twinkling brighter than the North star. He has on his school robes, of course, but he's found a way to wear them irresistibly, while you wear them as one would a sack of potatoes. On James however, with his tie slightly loosened, the upper buttons open, and the shirtsleeves pulled up, showing off his Quidditch biceps, he looks every bit the Golden Boy of Hogwarts that he really is.

You can't help but drool a little at the sight of him.

"No, not really," he drawls as the crowd closes around you, reminding you about your previous question even as the crowd encircles you as they would a particularly interesting fight. James always has a crowd of some sort around him, and he doesn't look at all uncomfortable in the spotlight, while you are positively squirming with all those eyes on you. Sure, you have these "meetings" with Potter more often than not nowadays, but you'll forever remain a girl more accustomed to the library than the limelight.

Somewhere behind you, you know that our roommates are waiting anxiously, and that Tia is all but biting her fingernails off. All of them know how you despise these fights with James, but none of them know that the boy that you call "Potter" is actually the boy of your dreams.

Before, when you were younger and more outwardly fragile, your friends had tried to protect you, to take you away before things had a chance to go bad, or to stand in the line of fire so you wouldn't have to. But eventually, seeing your friends get hurt for you proved too much, no matter their intentions, and you p ut on a mask of bravery and anger to protect them, though in fact, it is you that has needed protecting all along.

"You _can_, however, agree to go to Hogsmead with me this weekend," he continues, startling you out of your train of thought as he catches you unawares. Some in the crows laugh as you jump, and your cheeks turn as red as your flammable hair at their jeering. Though most only watch the display because of the tradition in the sort of thing, some out there genuinely dislike you, though they are few and far between.

"I'd rather go with a Slytherin," you say to him, knowing it will hurt him. And, deep down, you hope it will, hope your mean words will hurt him enough, so that he realizes _just _how much his cruel, attention-seeking games actually hurt you, hurt you because you care about what he says – you care about him.

Pretending you've shot him, he puts a hand on his heart, staggering backwards several paces, only to be caught by several of his innumerable admirers, "Oh that hurts Lily dear, oh how I'm in pain." He fools around for a few moments, and you wish you could laugh with the crowd, appreciate his antics, but you can't, you just can't. Your heart aches at his jokes, the jokes made at your expense, and you only wish it had been another way, and that he'd been in your arms now, not in the arms of the crowd.

After a few moments, joking grows boring to him. That's how he is, James Potter. He is constantly changing, moving on, adapting, and there are only two completely constant things in his life: his love for his "Mauraders" and his hatred for you.

"That hurt Lily," he says again, no longer 'hurt'. Now he is the predator, chasing his prey and closing in for the kill. Coming closer to you, close enough so that you can smell his scent – all musky and manly though with a trace of wind and grass – he whispers to you, "How about a little kiss to make it better?"

Involuntarily, you look down at his lips, only for a split second, just quickly enough to see two pink lips, slightly parted, and the gentle hint of white teeth peeking out. You look up again, meeting his eyes and trying not to show weakness, but he's already seen it, seen your momentary lapse. He starts to smile, starts to mock her in front of the crowd, but you don't give him the chance. In that opportunity, you see the possible solution to your problem, something that will allow you to resolve a little bit of your problems.

"If I do," you say, speaking up beyond your typical timid whisper, so that everyone can hear you, "Will you leave me alone?"

His eyes twinkle even brighter, and you see the mischief in him, the little spark that only makes him more attractive, even though it goes against everything you know, "If you do," he says, echoing to the entire crowd in ways you can never manage, "You won't want me to."

"Let me be the judge of that," you say to him coldly, even though your heart is soaring. You know that what he says is true, but you can't get past the facts: you're about to kiss him. James Potter. You're about to kiss James Potter. And, even though you know – somewhere in the back of your mind – that this is a very bad idea, you can't help but feel elated.

Just before you do it, you look into his eyes, amazed at the uncertainty that you see there. James Potter? Uncertain about something? The very notion is like saying the world is flat, or that the sun is a light bulb. James Potter is never uncertain about something and, even if he is, he never shows it. Yet now his eyes have lost their twinkle, and he looks at you almost like he's worried.

"Lily," he whispers, and some part of you tells you that he's going to break the deal. You see it then, in that split second, the two ways this could lead. In one place, you'll beat James Potter. _Beat _James Potter. Unheard of. It's almost enough for you to swallow everything else, every desire, every wish, just to beat him – just once.

And yet, as you're about to pull away, you see the other opportunity. If you don't, if you ignore his whisper, then you'll get something that might be even more important to you, something that you can remember dreaming about since forever.

A kiss with James Potter.

Your heart makes the decision before your brain can and, ignoring his murmur, you stand on your tiptoes, quickly snaking your arms around his neck. You hear his breath catch, and you wonder what it means for a second before the thought leaves you under the novelty of his hair. It's silkier than you could ever have dreamed, and you can tell why he passes his hand through it all the time. This close, you can smell him properly, and you identify where you smelled him before: the Amortentia potion that Professor Slughorn brewed at the end of last year. He smells exactly like the potion did, like grass and wind and the faint leather smell of a Quaffle. He smells perfect.

Closing your eyes, expelling all other thoughts, you simply stand on your tiptoes and kiss him.


End file.
